The Padel Court Caper

The worst part about being someone's emotional support human? They never actually support YOU emotionally.

I'd been following Chloe around like a lost puppy since seventh grade. Literally. That's what Jordan called me—their "dog." I carried her lacrosse bag, I laughed when she roasted my vintage Band-Aid collection, I even let her copy my chem homework. I was running myself into the ground trying to be what she wanted.

But nobody knew my secret: I'd been spying on Chloe's older brother, Mateo, for months. Not like creepy stalking—just strategic observation. I knew his coffee order (oat milk latta, extra foam). I knew he took photos of clouds for his "aesthetic" Insta. I knew he played padel every Thursday at 4 PM with his college friends.

So when Chloe invited me to the community center that afternoon, I nearly died. She wanted to watch Mateo's tournament and roast his outfits with her friends.

"You coming, dog?" Jordan asked, and I hated how I nodded like it was fine.

I was already running late because my neighbor's golden retriever, Buster, had escaped AGAIN. I spent twenty minutes chasing him through Mrs. Henderson's prized petunias before finally leashing him.

I arrived at the padel courts with Buster still attached to my wrist, sweat soaking through my thrifted flannel. Chloe and the popular kids were courtside,already taking their seats.

"The hell is that?" Chloe pointed at Buster.

"Long story," I managed, face burning hotter than the afternoon sun.

Then Mateo walked onto the court, and my stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ. He looked up, spotted the group, and then—his eyes locked on mine.

He waved. AT ME.

"Hey! You're the one who takes those cloud photos, right?" Mateo called from the court. "I followed you back, like, three months ago. Your feed is sick."

Behind me, Chloe's jaw practically hit the pavement. The popular kids went silent.

Mateo's friends were grinning. "Bro, invite them to play!"

"You down?" Mateo asked. "We need a fourth."

Buster chose that moment to lunge toward a tennis ball, dragging me halfway onto the court. Everyone laughed—except this time, it wasn't AT me. It was WITH me.

"What's your dog's name?" Mateo asked, grinning.

"Buster," I said, standing straighter. "And I'd love to play."

Chloe didn't speak to me the whole ride home. But I didn't care. I was too busy thinking about how Mateo had asked for my Insta, and how Buster was currently sleeping on my lap like he'd just earned a medal.

Sometimes you have to stop running after people who make you feel small. Sometimes you find your people when you're not even looking—like when an escaped dog drags you onto a padel court and your crush's cool older brother already knows your name.

And sometimes? Sometimes being someone's "dog" isn't an insult. It just means you haven't found your own pack yet.